Fierce Enough to Soak Your Panties

#. June 8, 2017

Honolulu, Kahuku CDP — Oahu, Hawaii, USA

Kahuku High School — Football Field

As everyone knows, football divides into an offensive team and a defensive team. And within that offense, there are two positions where pure speed matters above all else — running back (RB) and wide receiver (WR). The fastest players on any team tend to gather in those two spots. Of course, none of that applies at Kahuku. Why? Because I happen to be here.

Tweeeet—!

"Moi wins!"

"You're way too slow, Peter!! Too damn slow!"

"FUCK!"

"Still, it was a good race. I'll go ahead and call it impressive."

"God Damn—! You are freakishly fast."

"I'm kind of a big deal, you know."

This season, we'd added a good wide receiver to the roster — Peter John Mataira, who'd played at Mililani until last year. Peter believed he was the fastest player on the team. Until about a minute ago, that is.

"How the hell am I slower than the quarterback?!!"

"He was a national champion, you know?"

"Where do you get off talking back? Ten burpees!"

"Ugh—! Are you serious?"

"Make it twenty if you keep stalling."

For talking back to the receivers coach, Peter started knocking out burpees. And as that went on, Enoch drifted over to my side, his eyes brimming with competitive fire. He wants to race me too, apparently.

"Wanna go head-to-head?"

"…Next time."

I poked at him with a scared, are you? jab, but the kid held his composure beautifully. Hmm. Careful, aren't you? I like that. Running backs need that exact quality — instinctive yet ice-cold, a dual nature all at once. Anyway. As for why the quarterback is out here racing the team's speedsters — because the head coach demanded it. Apparently discipline on this side of the field had been slipping a little lately. So I promptly said yes, sir, squared my shoulders, and walked over to him.

"Is this enough to satisfy you?"

"Very good."

"That's a relief."

We're in the season-preparation stretch right now, so training is split up by position. A phase focused on sharpening individual skill, you could say.

"Then I'll head back over there."

"Right. Oh, and Moi."

"Yes, sir."

"What was your record again?"

I flashed him a grin at the question. He knows perfectly well — he just wants to hear it out loud. With the kids around, and all. He'd asked how many times today alone? He keeps dragging up something from nearly a month ago. But I answered without a shred of annoyance.

"10.01. A national record that reads the same backward and forward."

"Damn it. You absolutely shredded that thing."

"Anytime, Coach. Anytime."

Last May, I competed in a regional qualifying meet hosted by the Hawaii High School Athletic Association as my school's representative. The event was the 100 meters, just one of them, and I took first with a 10.01. That was a Hawaii state record, and at the same time a national best for the American 15–16 age group — which earned me a spot in the national championships, the USATF high school meet held every year in late July. The school, naturally, wants me to run. Free publicity, after all. I do intend to go — but who knows how that'll actually shake out. Football comes first.

"Damn—! You straight destroyed him?"

"How about it, huh?"

Back at quarterback drills, I'm sharing the joy with Sol-Jay. When a wide receiver or running back loses a footrace to the quarterback, it usually becomes lifetime teasing material. But this time it won't. Everyone already knows I'm fast. Like I said — I'm the fastest in Hawaii. I'll take some ribbing, sure. But a day or two at most? Three days would be pushing it. My other business was wrapping up, too.

"Let's get started, Coach!"

I asked Coach John Morse to begin training. Preseason is eight parts building the body, two parts honing technique. For quarterbacks it's six parts body, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠two parts technique, and two parts memorizing the play book. Right now, when Coach calls out the name of a play, we have to explain exactly how we move — a kind of quiz exam. It goes roughly like this.

"Moi? Honolulu Swing."

"Honolulu Swing. X to the left. Thirty yards."

"Correct. Sol-Jay? Motown."

"Motown…."

And so it rolls. From a distance, you'd think we were slacking off — a completely different picture from the linemen sprinting across the field until they puke, or the receivers running themselves into the ground. If that side is a war zone, this is a peaceful school. …Wait, look at me. We're already at school. Anyway. Roughly that's the idea. Quarterbacks get tested like this constantly. With one difference, though.

"Fishing Trip."

"Fishing Trip. Send X and Z deep, Y-slot pass."

"Metal Slug."

"Shotgun. Tight end jet sweep. Second clap."

"Wrong — it's the first clap."

"Damn it! Ten push-ups?"

"Nope. Twenty."

When you get it wrong, you don't just take an X on a score sheet — you pay for it with your body. That's the difference. Sol-Jay dropped for his push-ups, and I joined in rather than just stand around waiting. A football field in the dog days of summer, in the thick of season prep. The blazing sun doesn't even get to show its face in front of our passion.

#. July 16, 2017

Honolulu, Kahuku CDP — Oahu, Hawaii, USA

Kahuku High School — Weight Room

Every Monday and Friday, the Muscle Men gather in the weight room. People assume all we ever do is train until we puke, but we do mix in a few fun elements along the way. For example — this kind of thing.

"Come on, Marcus!! You got this!!"

"Ugh!"

"GO! GO! GO! GO!!"

"ARGGGGGHHH!"

"Push harder! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠MORE!"

"Don't you quit!!"

It goes without saying that most of the guys in here dream of playing in the NFL. That's exactly why we're all gunning for NCAA D1. Anyway — after three or four years of college ball, if you want to make the leap to the NFL, you take part in something called the Combine, a kind of standardized physical evaluation. Obviously they can't call every draft entrant, so the NFL mostly brings in the marquee names. And one of the things they measure there is this: the 225-pound (102 kg) bench press.

Marcus rose from the bench wearing a radiant expression, veins popping across his forehead.

"Whew—! Fuck! That feeling, man!"

"You got eleven, Marcus."

"Your boy's got some game! Give me some credit!"

For reference, last year Marcus could only put up 225 pounds a single time. It's true he could have done more but gave up too easily — a shortage of grit — but eleven reps now is genuinely remarkable progress.

"So among the sophomore linemen, then…."

"Winner! Marcussss—Lombard!"

"How do you like THAT, you weaklings?!"

Marcus was drunk on victory, but honestly, it would have been stranger if he hadn't taken first. The sophomore "linemen" on the team are, nine times out of ten, linebackers under 200 pounds, and the presumptive #1, Kana'i Liua, isn't part of our Muscle Men anyway. Because of his girlfriend — he can't carve out the time. Most of the guys who aren't here are the same. Tied up by their girls. Girls at this age mostly want to be number one, before school and before football, and even when they get dates five times a week, they pester you relentlessly if it drops to three or four. Look at the kids who can't put their phones down anywhere, and they'll usually give you the same explanation:

"It's driving me insane! If I'm even one minute late replying, she tries to devour me! She's completely out of her mind, rampaging around!"

And here's my guarantee: these kids get worse by the day. They can't focus on training at all. They spend dozens of minutes every day bickering in the hallway over trivial nonsense and then walk onto the field still steeped in that mood — how are they supposed to concentrate? A high school girl who understands what it means to date a football player? Maybe ten of them in the entire country.

"Alright. Everybody clear the area. My turn."

"Destroy it, Moi!"

"Marcus. Toss me the ammonia."

Before attacking 225 pounds, I brought an ammonia stick up to my nose. This stuff truly reeks. Imagine a urinal cake left in a public restroom for ten years. The infamous Smelling Salt — a football player's essential item.

"Let's Go, Moi!!"

"LIGHT WEIGHT BABY—!!"

"Whew—!"

Kana'i took the spotter position above my head, and I unracked the bar. Light. Feathers. Thanks to a brain and lungs jolted wide awake by the ammonia, 225 pounds felt like nothing at all. And I went straight to work.

"Hngh! Hngh!"

Three. Six. Ten. Fifteen. With every number, the voices around me swelled, and somewhere around fifteen they broke into outright screaming.

"Nnngh—!"

"Sixteen!"

"AGGGGHHH!"

"SEVENTEEN!!"

Clang. Final count: seventeen. A new record, for now. The moment I sat up from the bench, my teammates came flooding at me.

"You crazy bastard!! Seventeen?! You lifted SEVENTEEN?!"

"See!! THAT'S our quarterback!!"

"MO-I! MO-I! MO-I!"

"MO-I! MO-I! MO-I!"

The all-time record for the 225-pound bench press at the NFL Draft Combine is 51 reps, set by Justin Ernest in 1999. Around twenty is ordinary. Over twenty-five is a little respectable. Over thirty, pretty good. Over thirty-five, very good. From forty up, you're among the elite of that year's class. Naturally, records like those belong to linemen — defensive linemen above all. But that's talk for nineteen- and twenty-year-olds. For a high schooler, cracking ten reps is a big deal.

And yet even my record was broken before long — because the champion had arrived. This year's undisputed starting defensive tackle: Siaosi Lauhingoa. The strongest man among us.

"COME ON—!!"

"LET'S GO!!!"

Siaosi hoisted a staggering twenty-four reps, making it abundantly clear exactly who Kahuku's strongman really was. Us meatheads, delighted by a workout of all things — but thanks to that,

"SI-A! SI-A! SI-A!"

"SI-A! SI-A! SI-A!"

I realized our once-awkward relationship had turned into teammates — and now it was growing into friendship. All of this becomes the root of a solid team. Of course it does.

#. July 27, 2017

Laie, Kualoa CDP — Oahu, Hawaii, USA

Gavin Travis's House

Thursday. The head coach had invited me and a few of the boys over to his house, so we brought small gifts and came out to Laie. Right now I'm talking with Kana'i Mauga. He scratched his head and said,

"I broke up with her on the way over here."

"You had a girlfriend too?"

"Yeah. I was planning to end it anyway."

"Really? Why?"

"Because a while back she poked holes in every single one of my condoms with a needle."

"What?? That's a dealbreaker, man."

"You're telling me."

It's true everywhere in America: if a town has a high school football team, and that team is any good, the boys who play on it get treated like stars. Everyone in the area knows their names, and dating a football player is like dating a celebrity. And if that player isn't merely good but genuinely elite — D1-caliber — the girls will do whatever it takes to tie him down. Including getting pregnant. How many high school football players do you think became fathers at sixteen or seventeen? A hundred? Two hundred? Try more than eight thousand nationwide. Girls assume that if a high school player is going D1, his NFL career is already guaranteed — then they hit the wall of reality in college and regret it immediately, finally understanding just how foolish they were. I've seen plenty of guys with more than enough football ability playing at junior colleges because they started a family. And I will absolutely never be one of them. It's horrifying just to imagine.

"That's what I keep telling you boys."

Tap.

"Dating can wait until you're in college."

Tap.

Setting plates of food down in front of us, the head coach hollered over his shoulder as he headed back to the kitchen. "So? What happened with Kana'i's situation?"

"It wasn't true!"

"Oh— thank heavens! Thank you, Lord!"

"Honestly, what a relief."

Remember the kid who skipped Muscle Men gatherings because of his girlfriend? That very Kana'i's girlfriend turned the whole school upside down recently — she posted on social media that she was pregnant, uploading a photo of the test with two unmistakably clear lines. From that day on, Kana'i was banned from going out. He came to practice with his mother every day, and left with his mother when it ended. And today, we learned she'd lied. A few of us had gone to see her earlier. When we asked why she'd done it, she said it was because he tried to break up with her. I was speechless. That girl is a complete lunatic.

"Still, it's honestly the best thing that could've happened to Kana'i."

"For real. His girlfriend was completely unhinged."

"A party girl — drunk all the time."

"Weed and tequila."

"Didn't she puke drunk in front of his house once?"

The truth is, this kind of thing repeats itself every year. It's just the daily life of a high school football team. What matters is how the team handles it when it happens. And on that front, this time, we handled things pretty well. With so many of us chasing D1 offers, the moment anyone so much as threatened the atmosphere, people stepped in sharply from every direction. Of course, we do clash from time to time for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠various reasons, and sometimes practice under emotions running too hot, and it ends in a fistfight. Then, as if nothing happened, we're close again. That, too, is part of the daily routine. The coach and his wife took their seats, and we folded our hands and quietly closed our eyes. Once the prayer was over, fork in hand, Coach asked the transfer students about their life at Kahuku.

"So? How do you like it here?"

"It's great. The dorms are spotless, too."

"Bow to me. I built all that, you know?"

"I heard, but there's no way I'm bowing."

"You seeing this, Coach? Told you the kid's an ingrate."

"Quiet for a moment, Moi. And? Go on."

Everyone in this room except me is a transfer student. All of them have said everything so far has been great. They couldn't really say otherwise. From last year through this past May, the school raked in a staggering 17.7 million dollars from my jersey sales and poured a hefty chunk of it into improving the football program. Thanks to that: clean dormitories. A completely renovated locker room. New training equipment. Cutting-edge machines everywhere you look. Free drinks. And above all — the bus. It's gotten to the point where you'd struggle to find a high school program on the mainland with a better setup than our Kahuku. In Hawaii, obviously, there's nothing like it. It wouldn't even be a comparison.

"Playing in a place like this, it honestly feels like we're obligated to become champions."

"Now that's good."

"Yes sir— seriously."

And the conversation drifted naturally in another direction, because Kana'i had turned his gaze toward me.

"Moi here is the one leading the charge, setting the whole tone."

"Compliments, out of nowhere?"

"Because it's true. The Muscle Men thing — who in Hawaii hasn't heard of it? Everyone's started copying us. But they'll never get within a mile of our heels. We work harder than anybody."

"Damn it, Kana'i! NOW you're talking!"

That's exactly what it means for the level to rise. Real players know how to say real things. I think I'm going to have an absolute blast playing football with these guys.

"The defense has to be anchored by you two."

"That's the plan. We're going to be national champions."

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

I can't wait for the season. Surely I'm not the only one? I could confirm it in the eyes of my teammates and my coach that I was, without a doubt, not. Right now, we were terribly curious — how far this team could grow, and what kind of ending it would show us. We all knew full well that the sweat we shed this summer would decide it, and that knowledge was winding our expectations for the new season tighter and tighter. A Kahuku made new in every sense. We're going to be something truly monstrous. And entirely apart from all that —

"A new haka, you say?"

"Yep. What do you think?"

"Not bad at all."

We're preparing a new haka to unveil at the season opener on August 11th. From the Hawaii boys and the mainland boys alike. One fierce enough to soak your panties.